Gregory Goyle, Wizard for Hire
by forty-two dreams
Summary: Those clever muggles finally discovered wizards were real. Some are angry, most are fascinated, and Gregory Goyle finds himself in the tenuous position of representing all of wizard kind to a small muggle village that has no idea he's the magical equivalent of Homer Simpson. Can he lead the first mixed-ability police force in Derbychester to greatness?
1. The boardinghouse

The streetlights fascinated Greg. As a young wizard growing up in Goyle Manor, he was used to light sources flickering, floating, guttering, and occasionally going out for no reason at all. These muggle machines, though, now they were predictable as a flobberworm. Absolutely no personality. Greg was no artist, of course, but the rows and rows of concrete flats stirred some ancient cloak-and-inkwell instinct inside of him that said: this is where magic goes to die.

The muggles agreed, surprisingly. He could feel their ravenous eyes boring upon the hem of his robes as he made his way down the street to his new lodgings, keener than they should have been, positioned as if trying to capture a single shining spark of his talent to take home. During the war, Greg had always been assured the muggles were beneath him, and had seen no reason to disagree, but seeing firsthand their open subservience brought it all home somehow.

Their unquestioning respect was the absolute best part of this new job, better than the sudden alternative to a shopboy's life for a Hogwarts dropout without two OWLs to rub together, better than the escape from a too-bare life without his best friend. Greg had never been special before. He recalled the headline which had started this whole mess: 'Man with mysterious powers levitates book'. In the muggle world, you were a man with mysterious powers; in the wizarding world, of course, that made you a first-year.

The Outing had taken many people by surprise, but some reckoned it had been a long time coming. After a flurry of careful press appearances, demonstrations, and international summits, the muggles now more or less believed wizards existed, and suddenly the non-magical job market was snapping them up like Nimbus Four Thousands.

His dad wouldn't like it if he knew where Greg was headed. Gaius Goyle might dwell now in beautiful downtown Azkaban with his mother, but it was hard to get the man out of his head. For the first few months after the war, Greg and his family had served concurrent sentences with the Malfoys, the Crabbes, the Notts, and all the rest: one big, depressing Death Eater reunion. Even with the dementors newly banished by He-Who-Thinks-He-Knows-Dragon-Bogeys-About-Interna tional-Politics, the place still sapped something from you.

Seeing as his particular mischief had been outer-circle stuff, Greg had gotten out of prison first, but he wished he hadn't. Never before had he been forced to survive alone in the manor without guidance from Mum, Dad, Draco, Vince, or anybody, and after a few months cleaning up manticore droppings for a living, he'd jumped at the chance to become one of the first wizards-for-hire.

But he was here now, stepping inside the homey brick building he'd seen in the letter, and the landlady was looking up from her desk at him with that same reverent look, and he'd started to hope he wouldn't have to let these people down sooner rather than later.

"Are you Gregory Goyle?" she asked.

"Yes," he agreed, relieved. Until now, he'd been highly skeptical of his first forays with the muggle post system. "Is my room ready?"

"It is," said the lady, a strange blush creeping up on her face. "But I wonder if you'd come with me first. I mentioned to several friends of mine that I had a wizard coming to live in my boardinghouse and, well, they're a bit curious, you see. I'm Mrs. Andrews, by the way, Gregory. Anything you need while you're here, you only have to ask!"

Greg allowed Mrs. Andrews to take his old school trunk and obediently followed her down the hall to a small sitting room.

"This is him!" she announced to three older women arrayed anxiously around the sectional.

The one in the yellow floral muumuu clasped her hands together excitedly. "Well?"

Greg stood uncertainly. "Hello. I'm Greg Goyle."

She was unimpressed. "And?"

"And?"

"Are you going to do a trick for us?" asked her tall friend.

Greg cracked his knuckles uncertainly. "I guess I could. What sort of trick?"

His professional reputation was about to get started.


	2. That sort of thing

Greg entered the little police station warily, although not warily enough, because even on tiptoe, the tall, robed confused-looking wizard still attracted loads of attention.

"So," said a man in a dark suit. "You must be the new witch."

"Er, I'm a wizard, actually," said Greg. "Witches are the girls."

"You mean witches are wizards ... but wizards are not witches?" said a stout woman. "Seems a bit sexist then."

Greg looked about and realized literally every one of the seven people in the room was looking up from his or her desk in amusement. It was a small room, cluttered with dirty mugs and affectionately neglected cacti. Rubbish bins overflowed with old reports, and sticky notes covered the bulletin board. This here was a place of doing as one liked.

"Right," said the man in the suit. "I'm James Harvey. Welcome to Lower Tadfield; you'll be working on the Howeth case."

"Shouldn't take long with your help!" said the lady. "They say crime's already down forty per cent in police stations that have a wizard-for-hire on the staff. Frightens potential criminals, you know."

"Yes," said James. "I shouldn't wonder if that was the point ... In any case, Greg, why don't we find you a desk, and you can get on with it." After brushing an enormous stack of papers off the desk near the window, he added, "You've brought your own supplies, I hope?"

Greg gulped. "Supplies? What supplies?"

"Well, you'd know that better than I," said James, chuckling nervously. "Whatever it is you need to do your work. Now I've got a file here with all the important facts in the Howeth case, but of course you'll want to talk to many of the suspects in person, read their auras, that sort of thing."

"There must be some mistake. Were you expecting an auror?"

"An ... I'm not sure what the correct word is for you lot, but we were expecting somebody who solves cases with magic," said Monica. "A wizard-for-hire, right? You are a wizard, aren't you?"

Greg clenched his right fist. "Of course I am!" And to prove it, he shot a spark of Slytherin colors right over Monica's shoulder.

James breathed in relief. "Right then, there's no need for that! So you'll be able to do the tea leaves and the crystal balls and such? I've heard the crystal balls are quite effective."

"Oh, you mean divination!" said Greg, as the situation slowly dawned on him. "You want me to work out who did murders and robberies and that sort of thing, but with divination!"

Monica nodded. "Yes, Gregory. Divination. Will you be able to do some divination for us?"

"Sorry," said Greg. "Never took that class. I did Care of Magical Creatures instead ... You haven't got a hippogriff around I could tend, have you?"


	3. The Bad Man Catcher

James frowned. "I don't understand. I thought tea leaves and crystal balls were as magical as it gets!"

Monica said, "Yes, it would seem the problem is that we didn't check his CV well enough. It's rather like hiring someone who did geology for a management position."

James balled his hand into a fist, then released it. "Oh? Well ... that's absurd, Monica! We can't be blamed for this foolishness. Mr. Goyle, did you not wonder what we were hiring you for?"

Greg shrugged. "I thought you needed general wizard stuff. You're trying to catch bad men, right? Magic's very useful for catching bad men."

"Is it?" said James, hoping this HR decision wouldn't turn out to be a total wash. "Do you have a spell for catching bad men?"

"Dunno. I'm sure they use magic though. Our lot use magic for everything."

Monica gave Greg a look that reminded him of Professor McGonagall. "Perhaps the best solution to this totally preventable problem is for you to do some research, young man. Have you access to any books on either divination or magic spells for catching criminals?"

Greg might be a bit thick sometimes, but he wasn't too thick to know he was thick. He hated reading, and he didn't see the point when he could just get the same information by talking. However, other people seemed to regard the practice as the answer to all life's problems, and it was usually best not to argue otherwise.

Greg put his thumb in his mouth. "Could do ... or I could ask some wizards who catch bad men."

Monica's eyes brightened. "Professional contacts, you mean! Ah, yes. That would do the job. Have you any professional contacts, Greg?"

That was how Greg ended up in Millie Bulstrode's Ministry of Magic cubicle at ten in the morning.

It was a cluttered cubicle, filled with pictures of mutilated bodies and handwritten notes. Memos kept floating into her cube in neat flocks, searching for a place to sit and wait for their turn with their recipient's attention. Millie was clearly a proper bad-man-catcher, Greg thought. Not only was she very bright, but there was no way the ministry was going to hire a Slytherin auror this soon after the war without good reason.

"What in the name of Merlin's belly button are you doing here?" she asked by way of greeting. "Can't you see I'm at work? How did you even get in here?"

"I'm here on business," said Greg.

She arched an eyebrow at him. "Well there's something I never thought I'd hear you say. What kind of business?"

Greg briefly explained his predicament. "So, you did divination, didn't you?" he asked hopefully.

Millie shook her head. "You think we catch dark wizards with that rubbish?"

Greg shrugged. "There must be some reason people learn it."

She smiled in mean amusement. "Mind, it might help to put on a show for the muggles, I suppose. But if you're trying to catch muggle criminals, this should be simple. Why don't you come with me, and I'll show you how to track down a 'bad man'".


	4. Everything Good Is Illegal

Greg spent a very informative morning with Millie. He learned that there was a spell you could use to break into people's minds and read their thoughts, but that it was illegal. He learned that wizards had a potion that could force a person to tell the truth, but it was also illegal, and might not even work on muggles. Tracking spells, which were also illegal, were miles behind muggle methods anyway.

"I wish the law wouldn't get in the way of law enforcement so much," said Greg. "So what do we do?"

"Well," said Millie, "disguising yourself and following them around and asking their friends questions is always good. Especially with muggles because they won't be expecting it."

Millie cast a disillusionment charm on the pair of them, and they sidled up to the edge of the Hog's Head.

"This one seems strictly small time," said Millie, pointing out the rather disgusting man she was tailing. "Mundungus Fletcher. Mostly dodgy forgeries and robberies; he'd be beneath me if certain senior staff members weren't trying to show me my place all the time by handing me boring cases. We always thought Mundungus was on the muggle-friendly side, because he showed up at the Battle of Hogwarts. He might be in league with the remaining Death Eaters though, because we've seen them at a lot of the same places."

"Wait a minute!" said Greg. "That's him!"

"That's who?"

"Theodore Howeth, the bloke in this file here!" He showed her the funny non-moving picture.

Millie raised her eyebrows and examined the papers. "So, Mundungus Fletcher is posing as a rich old muggle with a murdered son ... why?"

Greg pulled down his sleeves. "Let's find out."


End file.
